“The path that never overgrows” speaks of a homecoming to Latvia after years spent living in Norway, beyond the Arctic Circle.

Shortly after returning to Latvia, I was gradually overcome by a vague sensation – a kind that I had never before felt or experienced. While still living in Norway, my thoughts frequently returned to the old homestead of my grandparents, conjuring up various images and sensations: the smell of a crisp, freshly-made bed, the taste of grandma’s pancakes, the sight of a bundle of oat stalks in a vase and the sight of some pale sun-bleached deer antlers hanging up by the big barn door. However, many other things that would remind me of events of real personal importance could only be recalled upon seeing them again. I had forgotten how funny the old Soviet-era doorknob in my friend’s kitchen looked, I had forgotten how my skin would itch from the local water. The memory of the scarecrow that I had once created had disappeared with time, as had that of the embroidered section of wall tapestry that my grandma had sewn as a teenage girl. Catching a glimpse of these seemingly trivial things, that had once carried special meaning, made me realize how fragile the fabric of my memories was. It seemed to me that a certain part of myself had become overgrown like a long-neglected garden.